


breaking in (shaping up)

by taywen



Category: Keys to the Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sunday was not banished immediately. </i>
</p><p>  <i>Demoted and stripped of all authority, yes. Humiliated, naturally. But as the new Master of the House, the Lord of the Incomparable Gardens and the one to fulfill the designation of Sunday for the Morrow Days, the Piper had allowed him to remain in the House.</i></p><p>The Architect is the one chained in the Deep Coal Cellar. Things do not turn out any better for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breaking in (shaping up)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Radioactive_ by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> Fills the "fork in the road" space on my trope bingo card.

_Sunday finds the Piper lurking in a suitably dark corner after the meeting between the Architect and her newly-appointed Trustees concludes._

_"I suppose you were listening the whole time," Sunday says, too drained from the recent discussion to muster the appropriate disapproval._

_"You cannot mean to go along with this," the Piper says, shameless._

_"Our mother is absolute," Sunday snaps; he does not have much patience for the Piper's immature tendencies at the best of times, and his temper had been sorely tested in the meeting._

_"I heard you arguing with her," the Piper says, bristling at Sunday's tone. "Why do you always take her side?"_

_"I have no wish to discuss this with you," Sunday says._

_"You realize that we wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for Father," the Piper presses._

_"The mortal species from which we originated require two progenitors."_

_"Don't be so obtuse!"_

_Sunday exhales, not quite a sigh. Tom had said, once, that things might be easier if Sunday and the Piper were not so similar. There's a certain degree of truth in that, Sunday thinks._

_"The Old One could not have created us without the Architect," Sunday says evenly._

_The Piper glares at him. "She wouldn't have even thought of having us without Father."_

_"Perhaps that would have been for the better," Sunday says without thinking._

_His brother jerks, taking a step back as if Sunday had struck him across the face. "So you'll help Her chain Father!" he snaps._

_"She came first. It is not unreasonable-"_

_"-I heard you arguing against it! I heard you," the Piper insists._

_"I was not successful in convincing Her," Sunday snaps. "Ultimately, it is Her choice."_

_The Piper shakes his head, visibly giving up. "I see," he says flatly. "That is your choice." He disappears onto the Improbable Stair before Sunday has the chance to think up a suitable reply-_

Sunday starts awake, gazing blankly up at the ceiling. The room is dark, but he is no mere mortal; his vision is perfect despite the lack of light. He can see the faint cracks fanning out from the corner above his bed, the splotch of paint from when a previous tenant had imperfectly redecorated the room.

His phone buzzes, alerting him to an incoming message. Sunday fumbles for the bedside table, unlocking the touch screen.

_Today's the day. TS_

Sunday allows his hand to drop to his chest. He closes his eyes, but the simple message seems burned into the back of his eyelids: today's the day. That would explain why Sunday had had that distasteful dream: today's the day. He tries not to keep track, but it seems his subconscious does the job for him anyway.

If only Sunday had grabbed the Piper that day, had made more of an effort to explain his reasoning or, failing that, restrained his youngest brother in some way. But the thought of the Old One overcoming the Architect, chaining Her to the massive, gaudy clock when She attempted to do the same to him had been, frankly, unthinkable. The Architect was first, She was absolute. The Old One came after and should not have been able to thwart Her.

He would not have been able to, had the Piper not betrayed their mother's plans to their father.

His phone buzzes again, repeatedly: someone is calling him.

"What," Sunday says flatly, answering without opening his eyes to check the caller's identity.

"No need to be testy, brother," Tom says mildly. "When you didn't answer my text message, I got worried that you'd done something... inadvisable."

Sunday laughs once, bitter. "What could he possibly do to me, in that case?" he muses. This date always makes him maudlin, but he cannot bring himself to care at this point. Later, certainly, he will regret confiding in Tom, but this is now. "Confine me to a single Secondary Realms? Throw me into the Void?"

Tom exhales audibly. "Sunday, I'm coming to pick you up."

"Don't," Sunday snaps harshly. "I'll be fine."

"It's for my own sake," Tom lies, because he is really the best of the brothers for all that neither of his siblings appreciate it. "I don't like this day either."

"There's no body of water nearby," Sunday says. "Just leave it."

"I'll see you soon," Tom says, ignoring him, and the line goes dead.

Sunday pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the lit screen until it goes black, leaving him alone in the dark room.

The phone hits the wall a moment later, shattering on impact.

* * *

Sunday was not banished immediately.

Demoted and stripped of all authority, yes. Humiliated, naturally. But as the new Master of the House, the Lord of the Incomparable Gardens and the one to fulfill the designation of Sunday for the Morrow Days, the Piper had allowed him to remain in the House.

Sunday had gone to see Her, of course. It had been a deplorable state of affairs. The House was for Denizens; the Piper ruled it harshly. Interference should not have been allowed; the Old One did not care what the Denizens did, so long as they did not cause serious damage to the Secondary Realms,

He'd helped his mother create a means of transferring her power to another; a mortal, ironically enough. She had found that certain mortals possessed unexpected capabilities that made them suited to be, in Her words, Rightful Heirs.

It was at that point that the Piper and the Old One had arrived, further restricted the Architect, banished Sunday from the House and, as soon as Sunday had landed in a Secondary Realm, the Piper had used his pipes to lure all the Rightful Heirs to the House.

Saturday had told him that the Piper disposed of the mortals afterward, in a viciously penned letter that was perfectly civil in theory but reeked of condemnation and anger underneath it all.

She hadn't added that it was all Sunday's fault, but he drew his own conclusions.

(It was the last and only communication he'd received from a Denizen of the House after his banishment.)

* * *

There is a boy sitting motionless on a swing, staring off into the distance, when Sunday arrives.

He always goes to the park on Sundays, when it is deserted. Attendance at the religious institution of one's choice was mandatory on those days, but Sunday has no wish to worship his father, all too aware that the god all mortals revere is flawed and fallible.

The boy startles when gravel crunches beneath Sunday's foot, meeting his gaze for a moment before looking away guiltily.

He is sitting in what Sunday foolishly considers, in the privacy of his own mind, to be his swing, but he does not comment on it.

"I guess you've come to take me back," the boy mutters, shoulders hunching defensively around his ears. The chains of the swing clink together in his grip. He gapes a bit when Sunday sits down on the other swing.

"No," Sunday says calmly, "I do not care whether you attend the service or not." He gazes up at the sky. It is a clear blue, a few idyllic clouds scudding across in the light breeze.

It is a beautiful day, but then these days always are.

"It's just," the boy bursts out, apparently unable to bear more than five minutes of silence, "it's just, I know I'll be... taken. I know it's stupid to think, there's no way to tell," he adds, when Sunday looks at him sharply, "but I can't shake the feeling..."

Sunday knows how to check if a mortal will be taken. (He usually does not check, now. He is not so masochistic.)

The mortals that are taken every decade of time (or whatever appropriate equivalent exists) in their respective Secondary Realms are the Rightful Heirs, and the Architect had shown Sunday how to tell them apart from regular mortals.

They call it the Harvest - a cleansing of the impure, or some other similar rot. The Old One had gotten the idea from the Piper, after that first time, and had worked it into every religion in every Secondary Realm. It was all an excuse to cull the Rightful Heirs, before they got too old.

"You will be taken," Sunday agrees callously. The boy will be dead before the day is out, true, but there is no need to be so cruel. He feels remorse immediately afterward.

The boy flinches, looking down at his scuffed shoes.

Sunday does not apologize, but he does remain silent.

"You know how to tell," the boy says, his blue eyes intent when he turns back to Sunday. "How do you know? You can't be a Chaff, you're too old... Do you know what this means?!"

Sunday blinks, taken aback. He has lived among mortals for ten millennia, and they still surprise him.

"Do you know _why_ , why does God take the Chaff away, what makes them- _us_ \- impure?" The boy's mouth twists and he falls silent.

"Sunday," Tom says, startling them both, "have you been making friends?" His tone is friendly enough, but there is a frown lurking behind his smile when Sunday turns to look at him.

"I know better than that, now," Sunday says, not without bitterness.

* * *

Before (the Piper's betrayal) (the Architect's imprisonment) (Sunday's banishment) the mere thought of befriending mortals had been utterly repellent. While Sunday did not always agree with the Architect, he could not understand the Old One's fascination with mortals either.

That had changed after Sunday was banished from the House. Sunday had tried to raise various Rightful Heirs, though his efforts had never been enough. The Piper would steal them away in the Harvest or, as Sunday became increasingly resourceful, he would show up unexpectedly and take them by force.

The last child that Sunday had tried to raise almost made it to twenty years of age. Sunday had taken her to a different Secondary Realm every Sunday, so that the Piper could not take her.

The Old One himself came then. Sunday still bore the scars from that day.

(His worst nightmare - worse than his dreams of how he let the Piper go, or how he imagines the fates of the so-called Chaff - is of that day.)

It was only by Tom's intervention that Sunday yet lived; the Old One had been furious. Tom had agreed to watch his older brother and ensure he would not disobey again.

When Sunday was sick of seafaring and had seriously been contemplating drowning himself, Tom had convinced the Old One and the Piper that Sunday was no longer a threat, that he would not attempt to raise a Rightful Heir again.

They had allowed Sunday to leave Tom's ship, but he imagined some Denizen was observing his every move anyway.

(The illusion of freedom was enough. It had to be.)

* * *

"Are you God?" the boy asks.

Tom's smile disappears, replaced by an utterly blank expression. Then, he laughs.

It sounds genuine, but the sound grates on Sunday's nerves all the same.

"He is not 'God'," Sunday says. "Though there is a certain resemblance between him and your mortal depictions."

The boy looks at him blankly. "So you're angels," he concludes.

"False," Sunday snaps, nettled.

"We're not angels," Tom says, his chuckles dying away. His gaze is piercing, keen and incisive; Sunday wonders that the boy does not fidget beneath the force of that stare. "Do you want to come with us?"

Sunday looks at him sharply. "What are you-"

"Sure," the boy says. "Sunday says I'm Chaff anyway. What's the worst that can happen?"

Sunday twitches a bit, surprised to hear his name in the boy's voice. He has personas that he uses whenever he settles down somewhere; the only one who calls him Sunday anymore is Tom.

"That's the spirit, lad. We'd best be going, the tide's turning."

"The tide?" the boy repeats, confused.

"Aye," Tom agrees, pointing. "There's my ship over there. She's a beauty."

Sunday follows his finger and sees, improbably, Tom's latest ship bobbing in the park's duck pond.

"Weird," the boy says, standing. "Do I have to call you Captain?"

"Aye, though I'll make a few exceptions seeing as you've no real experience on a ship, or so I imagine. We'll leave the lessons for later. We really should be going," Tom says; Sunday automatically straightens at the underlying note of urgency in Tom's voice.

"Sunday?" The boy is looking at him expectantly.

Sunday can still hear his last Rightful Heir's screams when he closes his eyes but he gets up from the swing and follows Tom and the boy to Tom's ship anyway.

* * *

The gratitude Sunday felt towards Tom fluctuated.

Tom had saved Sunday's life; of that, Sunday had no doubt. Had Tom not intervened, the Old One would have killed him. Tom was thoughtful and kind for the sake of kindness. It was utterly baffling how someone like that could be part of Sunday's family, yet Tom existed.

Sunday and the Piper were not thoughtful or kind. Their parents were nothing of the sort either, unless there was some incentive to induce generosity.

Tom was independent, neutral; he sided neither with the Architect nor the Old One, though Sunday always took their mother's part while the Piper staunchly supported their father. He did not look to the Architect for guidance as Sunday did, or chase after the Old One's approval like the Piper.

Some days, Sunday wished that Tom hadn't saved him. What was the point of intervening so late in the game? Sunday would bitterly wonder. If only Tom had committed one way or the other before, when it would have actually mattered.

Sometimes, Sunday would try to pick arguments with Tom just to feel something other than despair and regret. He would scream at Tom for never picking a side, for being so damn smug. Things would be different, Sunday would claim, if only Tom had chosen.

"Are you better off for the choosing, brother?" Tom would ask gently, his aged features sympathetic.

Sunday hated that. He was the oldest, the first, but Tom's acceptance of his anger and grief always made him feel like a child and Sunday hated him.

("I'll never know, will I!?" Sunday screamed in response to that infuriating question one night.

The next morning, Tom had convinced the Old One and the Piper that Sunday could be trusted not to try raising a Rightful Heir again.)

* * *

"I'm Arthur, by the way," the boy says as they sail out of the pond.

Sunday shivers, his skin prickling and the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end: they have entered the Border Sea, which should be impossible, at least for him. The Piper banished him, Sunday should not be able to enter any Demesne of the House.

"Sunday," he says distractedly, though Arthur already knows his name. He drifts to the railing. The water looks the same, but there is a certain essential quality that has changed - as if they have entered a different environment entirely. Which they have, Sunday reflects. They are on the outskirts, no obvious indicators of the House in sight, but he _knows_ all the same.

"I'm Tom Shelvocke, also known as the Mariner," Tom says, his familiar voice snapping Sunday out of his reverie.

"What are you _doing_ ," Sunday demands, grabbing Tom's arm and hauling him into the cabin. He kicks the door shut on Arthur's startled exclamation and turns the lock with his free hand.

Tom tilts his head. "Choosing a side," he says mildly, easily disengaging Sunday's grip.

Sunday flinches and turns away.

"Things are different now, Sunday," Tom says quietly. "Politics within the House have... shifted. The Morrow Days are restive."

"Convenient," Sunday spits, pressing a hand over his heart, where the skin is a mass of scars. Tom's expression is pained, pitying, when Sunday turns to glare at him. Sunday drops his hand as if burned when he realizes what he is doing.

"Will you not help us," Tom says. "That boy will need your help."

Sunday smiles tightly, mirthless. "You arranged this," he realizes, though the scope of it is... unthinkable. Not impossible, apparently, but improbable? Certainly.

"Denizens do not know enough about mortals, and the only one who knows how to help a Rightful Heir ascend is you," Tom says.

"Someone will notice our absence," Sunday says. "There must be records of this boy-"

"Not if we act quickly," Tom counters. "The record has been taken care of."

"You can't be telling me Saturday means to rebel," Sunday says disbelievingly.

"Is that so hard to believe?" the Denizen in question demands, stepping off the Improbable Stair. She is as beautiful as Sunday remembers, though he does not recognize the expression on her face. It is not even truly an expression, merely a tightening around her eyes.

Desperation, Sunday realizes.

He grunts as Saturday punches him, his head snapping to the side. He staggers back, one hand rising disbelievingly to his smarting cheek. He recognizes the bitter taste filling his mouth as his own blood: he has bitten through his lip.

"Saturday," Tom protests.

She ignores him, grabbing Sunday's chin in a tight grip. "I will tell the Piper you were behind everything if you do not agree," she says, collecting several drops of his blood into a crystal vial. "You and the Mariner. You will not escape death this time, I think."

Sunday closes his eyes. "Fine," he says.

"Hn." Saturday's expression is unreadable when he opens his eyes again. "You really have been broken."

Sunday feels his hands curl into fists. "I don't want to hear that from the one who's been working beneath the Piper for the past ten thousand years," he says.

Saturday raises her chin, something flashing in her eyes. "Hah," she mutters. Then she turns away, obviously dismissing him. "Where's the human?" she demands of Tom.

"What is the blood for?" Sunday asks when Tom goes to fetch Arthur.

"I've created a relatively harmless variant of the Cocigrue," Saturday says dismissively. "Yours will impersonate your pathetically mundane life on Earth. The boy's will join the rest of the Chaff when the Piper harvests them."

"You could have asked," Sunday says.

"But this method of drawing blood was infinitely more satisfying," Saturday says sweetly, smiling.

"I hope you won't do the same to the boy," Sunday retorts.

Saturday raises an eyebrow but does not otherwise deign to reply as Tom brings Arthur into the cabin.

"Wednesday will tell you the rest when you reach Port Wednesday," she says, once the rest of the blood has been collected, and departs once more on the Improbable Stair.

* * *

There were two fixtures in Sunday's childhood: the Architect and Saturday. The Old One spent most of his time in the Secondary Realms, visiting only rarely.

(By contrast, he was present for most of the Piper's childhood because the Architect was already trying to limit the interference in the Secondary Realms at that point.)

Saturday did not like him. This Sunday had known for as long as he could remember. He was too young to understand why, or even to articulate _how_ he knew, but Saturday did not like him. It was evident in small ways: the slightest hesitation to touch him, the way she would tense when he touched her, the faint frown she wore whenever the Architect was absent.

In return, Sunday disliked Saturday. He was petty and spiteful, impulses that he had learned to control by the time he reached maturity, but those early years cemented the relationship between the first Denizen and the first child of the Architect.

Later, Sunday learned that the Secondary Realms had come before the House, that Saturday had been the first Denizen, created to divert the Architect and the Old One from the mortals of the Secondary Realms. Sunday was, essentially, her replacement: it made sense that she disliked him.

There was no way to repair their relationship. Indeed, Sunday had been too proud to even contemplate attempting it. They were civil; there was no need to close the distance between them.

Saturday had turned away when Sunday was stripped of his authority, when the Old One had wrenched the Seventh Key from him and handed it to the Piper.

(It meant something that Saturday was the only one who had dared to contact him after the Piper's banishment rendered him a persona non grata.)

* * *

"You're leaving," Sunday says flatly, standing on the dock with Arthur.

"It would look strange if I stayed too long," Tom says apologetically, leaning over the edge of his ship. "You'll be fine."

Sunday raises his eyebrows. Tom has the grace to look ashamed, but Sunday holds up a hand to forestall him when Tom opens his mouth to reply. "This is the only way," he says.

"Good luck, Sunday, Arthur." Tom nods to the boy, who nods gravely back.

"Have a safe voyage, Captain," the boy says.

Tom smiles reflexively, but even from this distance Sunday can tell it does not reach his eyes.

"We should be off, Arthur," Sunday says, turning away. "Come along." He walks towards the port proper, projecting an air of calm control.

Inwardly, Sunday is in turmoil. Tom had not related much about the 'politics' of the House, but many other things had changed, in ways that Sunday could never have imagined. Most shocking (though in retrospect it makes perfect sense) is the fact that mortals have been brought into the House.

The Piper has supporters and informants not only in those who benefit from the meritocracy Sunday's brother has instituted but in so-called Raised Rats and the ageless, semi-mortal children referred to as Piper's children.

Arthur is supposed to pass for a Piper's child. Sunday's features have been disguised. Somehow, they make it to the lighthouse that serves as Wednesday's seat of power without incident.

"Welcome," Wednesday says, smiling with real warmth at them.

For the first time in ten thousand years, Sunday has set foot inside the House. For the first time in ten millennia, he is home.

For the first time in far too long, Sunday feels something resembling hope.


End file.
